Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
by Syntyche
Summary: The Council finds a questionable way to test Clint's loyalty post-Chitauri. The rest of the team is less than happy about it.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I know. I shouldn't post this! I'm in the middle of about six other stories, but the Muse has kicked into high gear and is, as we speak, churning out updates to multiple stories _**and**_ toying with the idea of some Hansel whump for any Witchhunters fans (anyone interested? let me know!) and also the sequel to Slipping. But this little fic is actually almost finished, so I figure what the hell, I'll post it and if anyone wants to read more, then I'll post more. ;D

Enjoy!

**Title: **Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

**Author:** Syntyche

**Rating**: T, for violence and much language

**Disclaimer**: Of _**course**_ I don't own any of this. Like I even need to say it.

**Synop**: The Council finds a questionable way to test Clint's loyalty post-Chitauri. The rest of the team is less than happy about it.

**Review:** Yes, please. It'd be awesome of you.

OoOoOoOoOo

**Empty Chairs at Empty Tables**

By: Syntyche

One: The Day Has Come

"I'll do it," Clint says, and he's looking at her with _**those**_ eyes.

Over the short years of their partnership, during which they've packed in more _**living**_ than anyone should really have a right to, Natasha has seen _**those**_ eyes more times than she cares to: the glinting challenge in his storm-colored gaze that says, "_You wanna live forever, Romanoff?_" which Clint thinks is goddamn hilarious because he likes to give her that raised eyebrow and sly look and compare her to the scantily-clad and extremely tactically inept warrior woman from Conan the Barbarian, which usually somehow spirals into completely one-sided speculation from Clint about how "Red Sonja" may actually be a more appropriate designation for his redheaded Russian partner.

Sometimes she hates that she loves him.

But not really.

She actually _**loves**_ that she loves him.

But she hates _**those**_ eyes that are looking at her with resolve burning past the love and sadness. "Clint … " she says hesitantly, and he lifts a grimy finger and tweaks her nose with a weary grin that's belied by the sorrow in his expression. It's a suicide mission, and they both know it.

"I got this," Clint assures her, adjusting his fraying quiver strap over his shoulder. The archer leans in to kiss her and he tastes like sweat and blood and cinnamon and _Clint_ and she loses herself for a minute wondering why they wasted so much time before becoming _them,_ while knowing it was because of their own stubborn natures and hesitation born of crippling scars they both carry from the past.

There's so much to say. There's even more they want to do. Clint stares at her for a long moment before offering her a final, sweet smile and turning on his boot heel to walk away. Natasha watches him head into the sagging, gutted building with a tingling numbness trickling through her limbs as he disappears from sight.

"I'll see you soon, hawk," she murmurs, because even though Clint is resigned to his fate, Natasha knows something the archer doesn't - which is why she put up much less of a protest than she wanted when he demanded to be the one to go. Still, watching him calmly and resolutely walk to what he's certain will be his death triggers scalding tears the Black Widow's not ashamed to cry since there's no one else _real_ here to see them.

But it has to be Clint, because this is all in Clint's head, and the sooner he reaches the end of this little test, the sooner the Avengers can collect their archer and just go the home, and the Council and SHIELD can go fuck themselves for making Hawkeye jump through these goddamn hoops because a crazy god hijacked Clint's mind for a brief stay and now the Council's "not sure" they can trust the currently suspended SHIELD agent who has put his life on the line for them more times than they can count.

And then some pencil-pushing genius had come up with _**this**_ idea.

There's nothing she can do but wait, and console herself with the knowledge that Clint's sacrifice won't hurt him in the physical world; he's just going to be left with another crapload of angst issues to work out when he finally opens his eyes and realizes he's not dead after all, he's just hooked up to a half-dozen machines in a clinically sterile lab in the middle of goddamn nowhere where white-coated techs are monitoring his vitals and every move, every choice he makes in this damned test.

But Clint's team is waiting too. The Avengers aren't supposed to be here - they weren't even supposed to be able to _**find**_ their archer, let alone infiltrate the twisted nightmare unfolding in Clint's mind long enough to drop the real Natasha in to help him along the way. But Tony's a genius and Bruce can be _**very **_persuasive when he wants to be, and if the bastards in charge of this sideshow complain - Natasha imagines Clint rolling his eyes long-sufferingly at the circus reference - well, that's too damn bad because they can't test how far Hawkeye's loyalty to SHIELD and his team goes without also testing the team's loyalty to Clint.

_Finish the job, Clint_, she thinks, calm and cool and hard as iron as she imagines the different ways she will punish those responsible once the archer's back in, well, his proper mind. _Finish the job and let's go the hell home._

Natasha settles herself cross-legged in the rubble of the wasted landscape, and waits for her partner to die.

OoOoOoOoOo


	2. The Heart of Clint Barton

Thanks for your interest in this fic! :D

OoOoOoOoOo

**Empty Chairs at Empty Tables**

By: Syntyche

Two: The Heart of Clint Barton

_Twelve days before the end of the test_

Sensation returns slowly to Clint Barton, a gradual and prickly return to the land of the living that feels suspiciously like he's walking toward that fabled light that you should never, never walk into if you want to see this green earth again.

Clint's seen that light a lot.

His fingers twitch, scrabbling against small, grainy concrete pebbles as his hearing slowly settles in; he realizes that he can't hear a damned thing except the ringing in his ears and the crackle of intermittent static from his hearing aids. Clint wonders if he'd used a sonic arrow. Wonders whose life he changed this time if he did.

A multitude of tiny spiders crawling across his toes makes him simultaneously scowl in disgust and grit his teeth as the feeling spreads to his ankles and shins, his legs slowly coming back to life. Clint can't see anything except glaring white light, drilling into his upraised face even through his cracked sunglasses. There are varying degrees of illumination assaulting him from all angles - he's inside, he thinks; cold pavement is pressing against his back, yet he can feel outside light joining the cacophony attacking his eyeballs. What matters most right now is that it's all painful and Clint winces and closes his eyes again.

His body continues to awaken, sending him various alarms and alerts that whatever the hell he did, he sure hopes the other guys look worse. When his breath finally shudders haltingly in his chest and lifts his ribcage gently, the archer becomes aware of discomfort all across his back and ass and legs and realizes that he can't really move anything, because _everything_ feels like Banner fell on it. Banner as Hulk, anyway, 'cause honestly Clint probably wouldn't even have to step back if Bruce got tossed into him: the physicist isn't staggeringly heavy or sturdy unless he's much taller and much more green.

_Well, shit._

Since he can't really do anything at the moment but formulate amusing mental images of Bruce bouncing off him and pinwheeling away, Clint decides a little fuzzily to drift off again. It isn't really a conscious choice, but his mind reasonably asks him where the hell else does he think he's gonna go, and he doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger, so he can wait oh-so-patiently for his team to come retrieve him. It's not like they don't pull his ass out of trouble often enough as it is - hell, Bruce has actually stepped up his basic medical training and triage, just for little ol' Hawkeye's sake. Well, Tasha and Tony's too, but Clint's apparently the one with the very crackable bones and penchant for tumbling off of tall buildings and through large glass windows.

He doesn't plan it that way, of course. That's just how it happens. A lot.

Clint waits quietly, drifting in and out as his limbs continue to follow him back to life. The back of his right hand is starting to itch like crazy and he tries to lift his left hand to scratch at it with little success; he manages a sort of embarrassing flopping-fish motion that he's really glad no one's around to see. The archer chews anxiously on the inside of his cheek, the only outward sign he'll allow of his discomfort, as if anyone couldn't already tell he's feeling shitty just from glancing at the Hawkeye-sized crater he's lying in.

Shit, maybe someone _did_ throw the Hulk at him…

When Clint opens his eyes again, he's still lying in the concrete crater. No one has come for him. No one's missed him. There's just _no one_ around. Something somewhere far below him rumbles, and Clint thinks it might be the foundation of the building he's occupying.

_Okay,_ he thinks, _this looks bad … _

A sick feeling digs into him like jagged shrapnel. Maybe the reason his team hasn't come for him yet is that they're waiting for _him _to come to _them. _It's eerily quiet, like all of the action has already happened and then everyone decided to call it a day and just packed up and gone home.

Still sucks that they left him behind, though.

Clint takes a deep breath and tries to pull himself up. It doesn't go so hot.

When the world finally stops spinning and his stomach resettles back where it belongs - its contents thankfully still where _they_ belong - a hazy thought surfaces in Clint's blurry mind:

_Give me a lever and a fulcrum, and I shall move the world_.

Of _course_ the mostly uneducated carnie can't take credit for the abbreviated Archimedes' - that's all Coulson, something Phil used to say when Fury asked him to do the impossible. And of course Phil did it. Clint was his fulcrum, Nat eventually became the lever, and Phil moved the world, and they were ridiculously invincible.

Until Clint broke up the triumvirate to become Loki's fulcrum.

Clint shakes his head irritably, the movement dislodging tiny bits of gravel from his short hair. He's moved on as best he can from the wholly overwhelming ordeal of having his mind and body used relentlessly by someone else, he's just waiting for the Council to do the same so Fury can put him back to work full-time. He's not even sure what he's doing out in his uniform; he's been grounded of late so if he's not wearing jeans and t-shirts he's probably working out in his gym shorts. He's also brushed up on his Russian (the language, not his redhead), driven the other Avengers so crazy practicing drums that Tony gave him an _entire_ soundproofed floor to practice on, and volunteered for more city rebuild projects than he can count.

Bruce keeps trying to get him to take some time to himself, away from New York, claiming that it works wonders on a chaotic mind. Clint appreciates the advice - Bruce would know, after all - but he tells himself there's really no sense dwelling on his sins. It's a familiar litany that sounds suspiciously like Tasha - because _she_ would know - and he figures that if she can say it and live it, he can sure as hell give it a try too. It helps to climb into bed next to her at night and have her remind him that it's true and that really they're all a little fucked up anyway.

He's stalled long enough. Groggily Clint pulls his broken sunglasses from his face, grimacing at the light stabbing into his eyes, and flops around for his comm switch. His fingers graze his ear sloppily a few times before he gets it right and a crackle of static floods his hearing.

"Hawkeye to Black Widow," he growls, and speaking aloud he immediately notices that his voice sounds smaller, farther away which means his hearing aids _are_ broken and that's just fucking wonderful.

Speaking seems to dislodge all of the dust clogged in his throat: Clint coughs and hacks and chokes and struggles to haul himself into a sitting position, water streaming from his eyes as he fights to ease some of taut bands of tension tearing at his chest. "Ow, shit, damn, _fucking hell!" _he mutters tightly. "Hawkeye to Iron Man … ? Hell, Hawkeye to _anyone_?"

More noisy static that makes him want to yank the comm out, then Clint hears weak gasping on the line that he barely places as Stark. "Stark?" he demands with a frown. "Do you copy? What's your status?" he presses anxiously. There's no reply and Clint slams a loosely-clenched fist on the concrete in frustration. "Give me your location, damn it!"

Stark's out there somewhere and he doesn't sound good - and he's the only one responding to Clint's hails so far which is worrying. Stark sounds terrible, and so, Clint snarks irritably, do the next several minutes of groaning and swearing and snarling the archer chokes out trying to gain his feet. He manages to sort of stand eventually and hunches over very still for a moment, hands braced on the tattered black leather stretching taunt over his thighs as he waits for his breathing to even out. After a few deep inhales the dizziness roaring in his head fades to a whine and Clint straightens slowly, his body reminding him joyfully in a myriad of ways the torment he'd apparently put it through before he'd decided to take a nap in the middle of this concrete wasteland.

But Clint's also surprised he's not hurt worse. He's pretty banged up, but the archer decides he'll survive. "Stark?" he calls again, scratching at his hand absently, and his voice sounds like he's been snacking on gravel. His throat feels like it too; he needs to find some water. "Jarvis?" he grinds out hopefully. To his surprise, the AI sounds back.

"Three floors below you, Agent Barton. Section C, subsection 2. I would advise you to hurry, sir … " The rest is drowned in static.

Three floors? What the hell?

It abnormally slowly occurs to Clint now that he's upright that he's in an outdoor parking garage, a fact he tells himself irately he really should have noticed a lot sooner considering all of the empty parked cars and harsh artificial lighting that's not helping his headache _at all_. Waning sunlight streams through the open spaces between floors and Clint's sense of urgency increases.

"Okay," the archer mutters, deciding that three floors is manageable. His bow is nearby, thankfully intact, and thank _God_ he hadn't landed on his quiver - he'd done that a few times and didn't like to even think about the way that felt. Clint snatches his weaponry up and stumbles toward the nearest stairwell, surmising that the elevators aren't the best choice considering the trembling he can still feel rumbling beneath his boots.

If the archer were a little more in his right mind he'd have immediately noticed a lack of detail in his surroundings: no people, no background noise (a detail that if he _did_ notice, he'd mostly write off as trouble with his hearing aids), nothing. This _is_ a test program still in its beta stages, after all, and the drugs Clint doesn't know his body's being given through the IV in his right hand are deliberately keeping his mind from displaying its normal sharpness. SHIELD and the Council are, after all, less concerned with how tactically intelligent Hawkeye is - which they already know, since he managed to swiftly plan and carry out the theft of priceless materials and also almost bring down an entire flying fortress carrying SHIELD agents and superheroes - but rather the choices Agent Barton will make when compromised again.

Hence the headaches and impaired hearing, designed to throw Barton off his game just enough to keep him from making the calculated decisions he's known for so the archer will make choices rapidly and instinctively. And that's what the Council is looking for: they want the _heart_ of Clint Barton, not the mind.

So while Clint is trudging his way down three levels of stairs to save Iron Man's life - a fact that Tony Stark, safely ensconced in Stark Tower a thousand miles away, is blissfully unaware of - Nick Fury is scowling and clenching his fists as he watches monitors displaying one of his organization's best assets being put through a test simulation the Director had neither willingly agreed to nor would have had allowed.

But the Council was firm: it's Barton in the sim, or the Avengers on the block.

And Fury knows they'll need the Avengers again.

OoOoOoOoOo

Clint finally sees a flash of red and gold glinting in a dark corner between a beat-up looking sedan and the concrete divider. Jagged cracks run through the grey rock of the divider and Clint wonders if Stark bounced off of it and that's where the damage is from. Bow out, arrow nocked, the archer approaches the area cautiously, using parked cars for cover as he makes his way to his downed teammate.

He doesn't encounter anyone as he reaches Stark's side and kneels beside the inventor. Clint moves a little too quickly and the world slews sideways but he ignores the wash of cold dizziness that leaves him chilled and gently reaches around to prize Tony's helmet off.

"Jarvis, report," Clint orders but gets nothing back. Stark's skin is waxy and pulled grey over his strong cheekbones, but he looks relatively intact: no major dings or dents in his suit that would signify major injuries beneath the protective metal surface. Jarvis' earlier concerned words, however, are still rattling around Clint's aching brain, though the archer isn't sure if the AI was concerned about Stark or the garage's wobbling foundation.

Clint decides to be concerned about both.

"Stark, wake up." The archer slaps Stark's cheeks lightly; there's no response and Clint sighs. _Awesome._ A few more unsuccessful tries before Clint mutters, "Screw it," and carefully slings Stark's armored gauntlet over his shoulders. Clint has the passing idea to activate the repulsors of Stark's suit and pull him along like a balloon in the Macy's Day parade, but even though the idea rouses a tired giggle from the archer's lips he ultimately decides against it: he doesn't know enough about the suit to possibly keep from shooting Stark headfirst into the nearest SUV, and he's pretty sure the inventor wouldn't be inclined to thank him for that. He's not thrilled with the idea of moving Stark at all, but he's not getting anything from _anyone_, and with the way the place the rumbling and heaving painfully Clint doesn't think it's a good idea to leave Stark here either.

Clint stands slowly, wobbling a little as he heaves and struggles with his grip on his unconscious teammate. The Iron Man suit _looks_ sleek and lightweight but in truth it's bulky as hell and really, _really_ damn heavy.

About halfway to the stairs, Stark's metal boots scraping along due to Clint's shorter height, the inventor starts to stir. His head tips sideways, his nose burying itself in Clint's short hair.

"Clint?" he asks groggily.

It occurs to Clint that his first name sounds strange coming from Stark's mouth. _Barton_, rarely, _Feathers_, mostly, _Katniss_ or _Legolas_ or _Cupid_ if Tony's drunk or punchy, but _Clint_? It's Hallmark-moment kind of odd, or maybe it just seems that way to the rattled and anxious archer.

"Stark?" Clint prods; he doesn't stop walking, keeps making for the exit because he can feel the increased tremors beneath his feet. They're not gonna make it. _Shit, shit, shit_. "How do you feel? Can you move on your own?"

"I'm pretty sure I've been better," Stark responds dryly. "In fact, there was this one time - don't remember her name but I _do_ remember her - "

"Right," Clint interrupts, not at all interested in where this story's going, "but can you walk? We gotta move, pal."

"Maybe," Stark says thoughtfully. As he's about to try, the floor gives one more cracking lurch and a jagged path starts to open up along the center of the floor, branching outward. The archer and the inventor share a look and bolt for the stairwell; they barely make it in before the ceiling starts to rain down upon them. Clint instinctively throws himself over his wounded teammate, but iron arms circle him in a bruising grip and he finds himself under the protective casing of Iron Man's armor.

"Duh, I'm the one with the metal suit, Featherhead," Stark mutters, and that's the last thing he says before the ceiling crumbles completely.

OoOoOoOoOo

Comments equal love and inspire the Muse! Please let me know if you'd like to see more!


End file.
